Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

and turn me in.
    Morelli ran a finger along the neckline of my T-shirt. “Speaking of sex, I have some beads upstairs, if you’re interested.”
    “Are you equating me with Joyce?”
    “No. I wouldn’t offer my beads to Joyce.”
    “It’s an attractive offer, but I’m off men.”
    “All men?” Morelli asked.
    “Yes.”
    “As long as it’s
all
men, I guess I can deal. Let me know when the policy changes.”
    I hiked my bag onto my shoulder. “Places to go. Things to do.”
    Morelli grabbed me and dragged me up against him. He kissed me with enough tongue to make me reconsider the beads, and I felt the heat curl through my stomach.
    “Mmmmm,” I said.
    “Too bad you can’t stay. I could sweeten the bead deal by throwing in another cinnamon roll.”
    “It was a really great cinnamon roll.”
    An hour later, I was back at Morelli’s front door. “I can’t believe I did that,” I said to Morelli.
    “Does this count as our make-up sex? Or do we still have make-up sex coming to us?”
    “I was supposed to be off men. And I didn’t get any beads.”
    “Yeah, I lied about the beads, but you can have another cinnamon roll if you want.”
    “I’ll take a rain check,” I told him.
    “Do you need help getting Joyce out of your apartment? I could physically remove her.”
    “I’ve done that. She comes back in through the fire escape.”
    “I can put better locks on your windows. I can install an alarm. I can arrange to have security screening or bars.”
    “It might come to that, but for now I’m going home to talk to her.”
    I had the door open, and I looked across the street at the Lincoln.
    “Do you want me to get rid of them?” Morelli asked.
    “No. I’m sort of getting used to them following me around. I think they’re mostly harmless.”
    Morelli kissed me on the forehead. “You know where to find me.”
    “More or less.”
• • •
    I climbed into the truck, and before going back to Joyce, I decided to have one last go at Lahonka. I parked in front of her apartment and stared at the empty yard. No toys. I walked to the door and knocked, and the door swung open on jerry-rigged hinges. The apartment was empty. No furniture. No big-screen television. No Lahonka.
    Lancer and Slasher had parked behind me. They were sitting quietly, taking it all in. I knocked on the door to the apartment next to Lahonka, and an older man answered.
    “I’m looking for Lahonka,” I told him.
    “She’s gone. She took off early this morning. Backed a truck up to her door, loaded everything into it, and took off.”
    “Do you know where she went?”
    “South is all she said. She has a sister in New Orleans and one in Tampa, Florida. She might have gone to one of them.”
    I thanked him and returned to my truck. Once someone flees the area, the file gets moved to the back burner for me. If the bond is high enough, Connie takes over the search electronically. If she locates the skip, she can use an out-of-state bounty hunter, or she can send Vinnie or Ranger. Lahonka’s bond was marginal.
    I cut across town with the Lincoln half a car length behind me. I stopped at Tasty Pastry Bakery on Hamilton and got a bag of croissants for Joyce. I would have gotten something for Lancer and Slasher, but I’d already treated them to a pizza, and it wasn’t like I was rolling in money. They followed me to the edge of my apartment building lot and parked on the side street. I backed up until I was parallel with them, and I powered my window down.
    “What’s the plan?” I asked Slasher.
    “We’re following you,” Slasher said. “We’re waiting for you to lead us to the photo, and then we’re gonna pounce.”
    “How do you know the photo isn’t in my apartment?”
    “You said you didn’t have it.”
    “You believed me?”
    Slasher got some color in his cheeks. “Maybe.”
    I powered my window up and drove into my lot. I didn’t see Raz lurking anywhere. Even though he liked pain, I expected getting shot had slowed him down a tad.
    Joyce was watching cartoons when I let myself into my apartment. I gave her the bag of croissants and shut the television off.
    “News flash,” I said. “I talked to Morelli. Frank Korda wasn’t a Pink Panther. The Panthers are diamond thieves operating in Europe, and it’s not even a real organization.”
    “Maybe he belonged to a different Pink Panthers,” Joyce said. “Who’s to say there’s only one?”
    I had no way to argue that. “It doesn’t